Light barely drips
through the cracks in the blinds
and the dust floats
back and forth
like snow falling
onto unchristened ground.

I want to yell.
To reach my hands toward
heaven
and scream.

Because we were running.

We rushed our hands
through the grain
and splashed
in the puddles of Spring.
We were light,
glowing and weightless,
as we drifted through freeways
and back-roads.
I followed that river
that flows in you
like a melodic composition.

Now, my hands
reach upward at things not seen.
My feet are motionless,
while your river's current
carries you forward.

The dust settles without a sound.